I Am What I Am
by PiellaGibson
Summary: Molly and Sherlock go undercover as a married couple, to bring down Set Carter, a leading drugs lord with a secret society that could be the key to his downfall. The pair, along with John and Mary, are tested physically, morally and emotionally. Will they all realise what it means to be the people they are with the careers they have? Will romance blossom?
1. Chapter 1

**Hello Again! It has been a while sorry, but this story has been much more confusing to write and so it has taken longer to work out the plot etc etc. This fanfiction will be a Molly/Sherlock romance once again, but the plot takes a much more heavy focus. I hope everyone enjoys this opening chapter and I really hope people will tell me if anything isn't up to standard. Thank you**

_**I don't own BBC Sherlock, or it's characters. I'm just having fun. **_

**Chapter One: Sherlock is reinstated, Molly is delighted. **

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_"Now for our top news story. You may remember the Reichenbach hero, Sherlock Holmes, taking his own life last June after it was discovered he murdered several innocent victims and kidnapped young children, all in an attempt to make himself appear a genius..."_

Molly scoffed, glancing at the television screen across the room as she placed the milk back in her fridge. It was the usual morning BBC news, two reporters sat on the bright red sofas as they gave the woken world the latest updates. This was all she had heard for the past several months, Sherlock's name being discredited, disgraced all because of a malevolent criminal who liked to play games. She knew the truth, one Miss Molly Hooper, because she and Sherlock's own brother, Mycroft, had helped the perfect genius pull off the intricate deception. And no matter how many stories of him being a fake were thrown at her ears, she wasn't going to believe them.

_"...Well it has been announced earlier this morning that Sherlock Holmes was innocent after all and faked his own death in order to expose the most dangerous criminal mastermind Britain has ever known. Jim Moriarty..." _

The mouthful of tea Molly had just sipped, flung its way across her kitchen side, dribbling down her chin as her eyes widened an unnatural amount. He was back? _Oh my god!_ He was back! She couldn't help the rush of emotions that coursed their way across her skin, the thumping of her heart against her lungs or the shaking of her hands. Molly squealed in delight, jumping around in circles on the spot before the tears of joy began to fall. He'd done it. Sherlock had defeated the enemy and was now able to return to his normal life. It was all Molly had dreamt about for months.

_"...Now it is not exactly known how he managed to pull off the elaborate hoax and it was presumed that he had an aide to help save a nation. However, in an interview with the Independent, Sherlock Holmes denied all speculation that anyone else had been involved, including his close friend, Doctor John Watson and claims to have removed any threat to the nation singlehandedly. Melissa Arkwright reports."_

She continued to high five the air, no one around to see the joy in which she felt in that moment. Molly switched off the television, picking up her tea and skipping to her room as she went to dress for work, utterly and completely thrilled to know she could finally stop worrying about him.

On her way to St Bart's, her only thoughts were whether or not she would see him soon. She guessed it wouldn't be for a while, too busy with being hassled by the press, the Reichenbach hero, a hero after all. Her suspicions were confirmed when she headed to the canteen first thing, a muffled chatter cascading its way across the room as the small television showed Sherlock and John pushing through a crowd of life-sucking paparazzi, attempting to leave 221B Baker Street. Molly's face rounded into a smile, those familiar black curls and prominent cheek bones making her heart flutter in her chest. It was an indescribable feeling of happiness that took hold of her, finally having the love of her life back in London.

But she couldn't let herself get distracted. She had half a dozen post-mortems on her list for the day and piles of paperwork to sort through, as well as having to deal with the looks she got from varying people down the corridors.

Her crush on him had been widely hypothesized throughout the hospital, or if people didn't speculate, they knew of Sherlock's almost constant presence in Molly's lab, him referring to her as the, "only competent Pathologist in the whole hospital." And it now resulted in funny looks, sympathetic gazes, pats on the back as she headed to her office. Molly attempted to ignore it all, already working a full day and didn't need the added distraction of Sherlock's reinstatement into the world.

She reached her lab, dumped down the heavy files clutched in her arms and looked at the clock. Sighing, usually enjoying her job though mind occupied elsewhere, she left the papers there for later, heading to the morgue to begin her day.

Most of the autopsies were simple, taking less than two hours each to conduct. Two car accidents, one heart attack, one drug overdose and a suicide. The final autopsy on her list would take another day of examination, the cause of death not overly straightforward to determine. This was a normal day for Molly however, there being almost always one bugger that died under suspicious circumstances.

The rest of her day she decided to spend catching up on the records, the most tedious and painstaking part of her job. After a break and some much needed crisps, Molly pulled up her lab stool and began to write, concentrating hard on the different forms that needed to be filled in.

She checked the time again, her twelve hour shift beginning to take its toll, thinking about the warmth of her bed and Toby scratching at the newly painted doorframes. Looking back to the lines and squiggles, Molly noticed an envelope poking out slightly from underneath her last few files, almost certain it hadn't been there that morning. She frowned, sliding it out and observing it closely. There was no name on the cream coloured front, nor any indication of the sender, but she could only assume it was for her. Why else would it have been hidden amongst her files, in her own personal work space?

Cautiously, the Pathologist opened the seal with a shaky finger, pulling out the small note inside, a piece of card, also cream and matching the envelope. The second her eyes landed on the handwriting, Molly knew who it was. That same rush of emotions clouded her brain and restricted her heart. It read:

_Angelo's 10:30_

Her cheeks began to ache, the smile on her face so big she was sure people would think her deranged, but she couldn't help it. How long had she dreamt of his return? His gallant, brilliant, fantastic return? Molly finished the rest of her work, packed her things quicker than she ever thought possible, switched out the lights and headed to the restaurant, wanting to make sure she wasn't late. He'd mentioned it in the past to her, this place, and she had a vague idea of its location, but just to double check, she'd used the map on her phone, not wanting to miss an opportunity such as this. An opportunity she had hoped and prayed for since the day he had left all those months ago.

Parking down a side road and still in her work clothes, Molly locked the car and nervously twisted her hands together, knowing she was about to meet the man that meant the world to her and whom she thought she would never see again. She rounded the corner and came to a halt, staring, confused, at the restaurant before her. No lights were on (none that she could see anyway) and the sign on the door said closed, despite the closing time being a half hour before midnight. In a panic, Molly yanked up her sleeve to look at her watch and rooted through her bag, unfolding the note and reading the details to make sure she hadn't got it wrong. But just as she frowned painfully and turned away, the door flung open, a round-bellied man grinning at her eagerly.

"Um, H-hello." She muttered warily, expecting to be greeted by someone else. The Pathologist glanced behind her, confused, and then looked back to the man, "I-I thought it was – did you send me the note?" The man just laughed and stood to the side, gesturing for her to enter the darkness. Molly's mind raced for a moment in hesitation, wondering whether this was some evil trickery, instead of what she had initially thought. Though she knew the handwriting and trusted the man whole-heartedly who had sent it. He wouldn't put her in danger, he would never put anyone he cared about in danger, so she stepped shyly inside, watching over her shoulder as the man with the long grey ponytail, closed and locked the door behind them.

"This way." He said in a thick, gravelly voice, walking to the back of the room to a more secluded part of the restaurant. There were a number of private booths, high wooden panels with a circular seat, a small light on the table being the only illumination.

And that was when she saw him.

Molly's breath hitched in her throat, tears formed in her eyes as she saw him sat in one of the booths. Sherlock was looking down at something, a menu presumably or his phone, hair on his head as perfect as ever and the flicker of a candlelight extenuating his perfect face.

The man, who she presumed owned the place, guided her over, making Sherlock look up from the table. He immediately stood, the faintest of smiles pulling at his lips, as though he was glad to see her, she hoped as much. His hands straightened his suit jacket and slipped casually into his pant pockets.

"Molly." Sherlock uttered and the Pathologist wasn't entirely sure if her knees would support her after the rumble of his voice coursed its way through her limbs. All she managed was a giggle, hand coming up to cover her mouth as she fought back the urge to hug him. He wouldn't like that, sentimentality and all. However, Molly would be exceedingly surprised if he and John hadn't hugged since his arrival back in London. They were best friends after all and John had thought Sherlock was dead and buried.

She took the last few steps to sit down, his familiar long coat placed carefully between them.

"Thank you, Angelo." Sherlock said dismissively to the man, unbuttoning his suit jacket and resting his back on the padded seat. Angelo nodded compliantly, exiting the room through a back door to give them some privacy.

"You did it." Finally finding her voice, she fiddled with the zip on her coat, not sure what this was all about, or whether she would be there long enough to remove her coat. Sherlock smiled brightly then and chuckled deeply, a hint of smugness in his eyes.

"Did you ever doubt me for a second, Molly Hooper?"

"No." She responded immediately, another giggle falling clumsily from her mouth. Tears still pricked at her eyes and her lungs felt restricted, "How did John take the news?"

Sherlock reacted with a small sigh, "He wouldn't speak to me at first, punched me, threatened to smash my skull." Molly's eyes went wide in shock, not thinking he was capable of such violence. Sherlock noticed and rolled his eyes, "The skull that I talk to, helps me to think."

"Oh."

"But I managed to charm him round, Mrs Hudson too."

Molly smiled, "Have you been back long?"

"A week." He said nonchalantly, "I've been hiding at Baker Street. Mycroft needed to clear up a few loose ends before I could reveal myself. Questions to answer, people to interrogate, that sort of thing."

"A-and you're back for good?"

"Hopefully. With thanks to yourself and Mycroft, John, Lestrade and Mrs Hudson are out of danger." His voice dropped volume, "I owe you and my dear brother my life."

"I'd risk everything again, if it kept you safe."

There was a silence then, Molly not entirely sure what she was here for. Surely not idle chatter, Sherlock hated idle chatter. So she turned her attention to current events, the reason for this late night meeting, "What is all this?"

Molly observed him as he cleared his throat and lowered his eyes, "The press are all over my back as you have most likely noticed. They all want a little piece of me and I'm not willing to play into their hands." His words were spat like venom from a snake's mouth, not shy in letting Molly know how much he despised the life of fame, "This is why we are meeting like this. I needed to speak with you without raising suspicion."

"Why? Don't want the press to think you've got a girlfriend?" It was intended as a joke and Molly even laughed to add to the affect. But all she received in return was a look that said the joke was distasteful to him. He sighed dejectedly and she wanted to take it back, "Sorry." She whispered shyly.

Molly nodded awkwardly when Sherlock didn't respond and thought back to his request. She presumed it was another appeal for her help, access to the lab, documents to look at. She removed her coat, placed it down next to her bag and gave him her undivided attention. Angelo entered again at this point, carrying a tray. He rested the tray on the table, placing a bowl of pasta down in front of her, as well as a small glass of red wine. Molly couldn't help but raise her eyebrows, unsure what to think, watching as Angelo handed a mug of coffee to Sherlock before walking away.

"Um I-"

"Don't read too much into it." Sherlock said indifferently, his eyes a hint of teasing, the familiar snappy edge to his voice returning, "I had to thank you in some way, for the help you gave me-"

"Oh it was nothing." Molly felt like rolling her eyes at her own words, but Sherlock did it for her.

"Molly," God how she loved the way he said her name, "please, don't try to be the modest unknown hero. You risked your job, your career, everything you have ever known to help me. I should probably do more than buy you dinner, but you know I'm not one for grand gestures."

She laughed, gazing into his smouldering blue eyes, wishing she could run her hands through his hair and kiss those tempting lips, "You could just say thank you, you know. That would have been enough for me." Molly could see him holding back a grin, a slight twitch of his lip giving him away. Instead of responding to her, he took a sip of his drink, sniffing it casually before placing it back down on the saucer.

Molly tucked into her food then, secretly wondering if Sherlock had known her favourite pasta dish. _Oh come on, Molly_. Who was she trying to kid? Of course he knew. He probably only needed to look at state of her nails and he would be able to tell her everything she had done that day. He was a genius and she couldn't help the strange satisfaction she got every time his eyes travelled to observe her.

Silence had commenced between them for a short while, not an uncomfortable silence, just one that stated both enjoyed the other's company without a word having to be spoken. But Molly's mind raced with so many questions. Where had he been? What had he done? Were things going to continue as before? Was he okay? Did he-

"Go on." His voice rumbled.

"What?" She replied, still chewing on a slither of pasta. Sherlock's eyes moved around the room, his way of acting like he was only vaguely interested.

"Ask me." Of course he knew. Molly only hoped and prayed he couldn't read her thoughts all the time, otherwise she'd be walking around with her cheeks constantly flushed. But she wasn't curious about his actions over the last seven months. Molly was more concerned about how he was, if he had coped being without friends for months on end.

"Are you okay?" His face turned to stone at this, a face of surprise and unwillingness to express emotion, obviously not the question he had anticipated. His eyes averted her gaze and stared intently at the emerald green table cloth. He didn't respond, so she pressed further.

"I know it must have been difficult for you. Well I-I don't know personally because I've never had to- No, I mean..." She stopped and clutched her eyes shut for a second, trying to form a coherent sentence, taking a deep breath, "Seven months away from everything you care about, can't have been easy. I don't know what you've done in that time, or where you've been. But you must have found it hard. I know I would." His eyes were fixated on her, mouth faintly parted and a sad look washing over him.

He tried to seem unaffected by her words, putting on a cheerful tone as he spoke, "You're quite observant when you want to be, Molly."

"That's not answering my question." Sherlock wasn't going to get away with it again. He avoided questions about emotions and it wasn't the first time he'd done it to her. But Molly wanted to reassure him it was okay to care and he wasn't alone in all of this, "Are you okay?"

The detectives eyes didn't leave hers, the intensity of his gaze making her want to look away. But she couldn't. She needed to make her point and she wasn't going to back down.

He glanced down and took a short breath, "I used to live alone and it was easier than having to live with other people." There was a pause, "But seven months without contact with Mrs Hudson, John, Lestrade...you," Molly's breath hitched at this. She really did count, "Let's just say I wish I could have had someone to talk to."

Molly instinctively leant forward to comfort, though remembered who she was sitting with and so kept her hands free from his shoulder. Instead, she swallowed down the tears of sadness she felt for his struggle and tried words of reassurance.

"You could have talked to me. I-I'd have always been ready to talk, no matter where I was, or what I was doing."

"It wouldn't have been safe to contact anyone." Sherlock was clearly not happy with the way the conversation had turned, hands now fixed to the cup in front of him, "I had contact with Mycroft, my dear brother, but that was only when necessary. Updates on Moriarty's enemies, whether or not I'd been found and needed to change location. Not a conversation meant to console, let it be assured."

Molly wasn't sure what else to say. Her pasta had been forgotten about, his coffee finished long ago. In her ideal world, she would comfort him in the best way she could, a hug, words, anything she knew. Though, this was her and he was him and with her undying love and his constant indifference, Molly didn't know how to tell him everything would be okay now.

Though Molly regretted saying nothing, she wished she had said something, anything to prolong the moment, for he proceeded to wrap his scarf around his neck and grab his thick coat next to him. Without a word, he stood pulled his coat over his shoulders and smiled at her as he covered his hands in a pair of leather gloves.

"Mycroft will be in contact to debrief you. There are a few details that need to be covered."

"O-okay." Molly stuttered, sad that he was now leaving her presence. If only she had said something. Sherlock looked at her then, blue eyes piercing brown as his look became thoughtful.

"Thank you, Molly Hooper. For everything." And with that, he swivelled on his heel and headed through the back door of the restaurant. She continued to sit there, stunned and confused at the evening's turn of events. Sherlock had not only survived this ordeal, he had somewhat opened up to her and bought her dinner, three things Molly thought might never happen. A smile built itself upon her delicate face then, her back coming to rest down on the plush red fabric behind her.

She wondered where things would go from here.


	2. Chapter 2

**Sorry for the really long delay. It's taken me ages to edit this, despite it being shorter. Please let me know if it doesn't make sense or whatever, or if you notice mistakes. **

_**I own nothing! **_

**Chapter Two: The beginning of the case. **

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Molly didn't see him for another three weeks, three days, ten hours. Every day in the lab, her deep brown eyes would glance at the pale double doors, hoping he would barge through them in his ordinary fashion and charm her to get what he needed. Molly was usually inclined to feel annoyance at his dismissal of her intelligence, like he used to do. However, after everything that had happened, she didn't care if all he asked her to do was make coffee, Molly was eager to do anything for him as long as she was in his presence.

Despite having not seem him in the flesh for a while, his face Molly had seen every single day since their meal together, because that was all she saw on the television. Curled up on the sofa after a tiresome shift, another news report would surface of his reinstatement, cases solved, the air of mystery surrounding his personal habits and lifestyle, the debate about his relationship status. Some people were heavily against him working again with the police and were campaigning to get him sent down. It irritated Molly greatly whenever people suggested he wasn't a good man because she knew what a genius he was, however, she also understood that the poison that Moriarty had injected would take time to leave the world's system.

All Molly could do was continue with her routine and try to contain her beating heart, hammering heavy within her chest every time someone walked through the double doors. She would just have to wait a while longer to see his face again, smell his aftershave and see his smile.

Three weeks, three days, ten hours. That was the time she spent in her imaginary waiting room somewhere deep in her mind. Molly was concentrating hard through the lens of Sherlock's microscope, the microscope she had christened as his. The vision she had conjured up in her head of how their next meeting would unfold, what she had imagined repeatedly whilst sat in her waiting room, was nothing like what actually happened. Molly would be in her lab, not expecting his arrival (she never expected his arrival). Sherlock would glide through the doors and say her name cheerfully, already armed with his charming ways. He would need to solve a case and she would allow free use of her equipment. Hours would be spent alone together and she would dote on him endlessly.  
Instead, Molly was sat at the microscope, finishing her analysis on her days autopsies, when her phone jingled in her lab coat pocket. It was Lestrade, requesting to view the Carter case. Set Carter, a drugs lord based in London and Scotland, whose close associates kept ending up on the autopsy table, or more specifically, Molly's autopsy table. Carter had never been brought to justice, simply because of his powerful connections within the criminal network. He was a faint shadow of authority in comparison to one Jim Moriarty, though it was enough to keep him from a dingy cell.

Molly had been working on this case a while now, closely with Lestrade, and within the last month, two members of Carter's exclusive and yet elusive club had been found dead. Members were not known to the police by face, only by a scar they gained when worthy enough to be accepted by Carter himself, the scar only being discovered by the police once dead. This made it extremely difficult for them to deal with the criminals involved and to anyone with an ordinary job, a scar running along the left shoulder blade could easily have been a childhood accident, a plausible story to cover where the old wound really came from.

To a pathologist, someone who seldom went a day without cutting open and examining corpses, could tell when such a scar had been purposefully made and sewn up unprofessionally. Three bodies, including the autopsy Molly had conducted that same day, had recently come in with the exact same scar above the left shoulder. Lestrade was eager to bring Carter to justice with an undercover case he'd spent months planning. Hopefully, whatever this exclusive club contained, would be enough to end Carter's criminal reign.

She prepared the two most recent of dead members and transferred them to the middle of the room, along with the paperwork. Shortly after, from the corner of her eye, she saw not one, but three men walking past the viewing window. Molly hadn't known _he_ was coming and had she known, she might have doubly prepared for his visit, all in an attempt to keep the mouse at bay.

She took a private breath before turning to watch the door swing open. Lestrade entered and greeted her immediately, followed by Sherlock and John Watson. This was the first time she had seen John since Sherlock's return, and after all the lying she had to do to protect the man she loved, Molly wasn't entirely sure how John would react to her presence. However, he seemed civilised enough, attention more focused on the dead bodies.

Lestrade began explaining to Sherlock about Carter case, as he believed he would be one of the few who would be able to cope with the mental strain, along with John and some undercover agents. And then it suddenly dawned on Molly, that Lestrade was asking Sherlock to take the undercover case, aimed at exposing Set Carter. From what she had been informed, the case could last up to three months, depending on how long it took to gain the trust of Carter and have access to the secrets of this exclusive club, in the hopes of bringing him down. Molly wasn't entirely sure how Sherlock could get away with it considering he was all the talk of the media. And if Sherlock really was going to take the case, Molly was sure she would qualify for a severe break down, having been without him for eight months and then a further three months on this case. Carter was based in Scotland, at his private estate, so it wasn't as though she could easily see or speak to him. He would be undercover as someone else and Molly would be left alone, again.

Her reality came back into focus as she heard Lestrade asking to hear the reports. Almost like a robot, Molly began, trying not to dwell on the prospect of him leaving.

"Firstly, Edmund Bridges, Male, thirty-eight, found in a London hotel. The..." She referred to her notes, "the Berkeley hotel in Knightsbridge."

"Expensive then." Sherlock immediately stated, posture perfect and a stern gaze.

"Yes, average room cost being around seven hundred and eighty pounds per night." Molly replied, a hint of confidence, "There was nothing overly suspicious about his death, a drug overdose in an expensive hotel room after a party. I've seen it many times before." The Pathologist caught Sherlock's eye, whose own were concentrating hard on her. Momentarily, she felt the mouse within stammer to the surface, but she was a professional and had to keep reminding herself that they had been through a tremendous amount together. He trusted and believed in her and with this in mind, she continued.

"H-however, the scar on his back," Molly pulled the body bag to uncover the shoulder blade, gloved hand pointing to the deep pink scar.

"Just looks like an ordinary scar." John suggested, hands linked behind his back as he leant in to get a better look.

"Or some form of secret society." Sherlock perked up, with slow emphasis on the sibilance. She loved his intelligence, his ability to work things out from simple facts.

"Exactly." Molly confirmed, with an uncontrollable smile, despite the fact that there were two lives lost before them, "Mr Set Carter has referred to it as his exclusive club, which we believe is where his closest associates are and the heaviest criminal activity." Usually Molly wasn't so filled in on the details of the corpses background, however this case had been going on for months, long before Sherlock came back and Lestrade had suggested a closer involvement from her might be useful. This was the first time she had researched in full and had the police updating her on any new developments.

"We've had three bodies arrive at the morgue like this, known criminals with the exact same scar, poorly stitched and poorly healed." Molly proceeded to unzip the other body bag to show them the identical scar on the other man. Sherlock, Lestrade and John moved to gather around the other slab, observing the cut on the dead man's back.

"Jonathan Dudley, Male, thirty-six, died in a similar circumstance, in a hotel room after an apparent party. Though this gentlemen died from alcohol poisoning."

Sherlock pulled out a magnifying glass from his pocket, carefully scrutinizing the scar.

"How is your cat, Molly?"

In complete disbelief, Molly shook her head. Here she was trying to impress him with her professional attitude and he asked about Toby, "My cat?"

"Yes, your cat." Sherlock stood up straight and returned the magnifying glass to his pocket. He then reached into the other and pulled out his leather gloves.

"H-he's fine, but I-"

"Your friends. They like him I suppose?"

"Yes, Sherlo-"

"Good." His smile beamed across his face, hands now clad in warmth. He then turned to Lestrade and patted him lightly on the shoulder, "I want Molly for this case, Lestrade."

The silver-haired man frowned, also in complete disbelief, "Molly?"

"Am I not speaking loudly enough today? Do I have to repeat everything? That's what I said, didn't I?" The consulting detective's patronising tone emitted around the room.

"Sherlock," Lestrade's hands had found his hips, "You do realise the amount of paperwork this would take, never mind how long it will delay the operation."

He responded by rolling his eyes, "Oh come on Lestrade. You're telling me you're not already buttering Molly up to be on your team whenever you need her?"

"I'm sorry, what?!" She was lost, utterly and completely lost. What were they talking about?

"She'll need to be briefed, trained. It takes years to have someone do this job."

"I'm doing it."

"Yeah, but you're..." Lestrade's face screwed up, "You're Sherlock. You're weird."

"Hmm." Sherlock hummed, though it wasn't a hum of defeat, more of a marker that he was about to change tactic. Molly couldn't be sure, but she believed her involvement in this case was about to become heavy.

"It's a mentally challenging job."

"And she could cope. John and I will be there to support her." The detective chief inspector sighed at the man's stubbornness, "I refuse to work with anyone else." He signed again, in defeat this time and headed for the door.

"Fine Sherlock. Have it your way." With that, he left. John smiled awkwardly, and muttered something about his own briefing before leaving.

Molly watched the men disappear before turning back to Sherlock, not entirely sure what the fuss was about, though having a strong sense her gut was right. He stood there, tall and handsome, usual attire with a plum coloured shirt. The silence was choking her, and so she busied herself with putting the corpses away.

"Molly." Sherlock began, the Pathologist managing to meet his eye, "You're well informed on this case, you know about Set Carter, his exclusive club, what it might involve." Sherlock moved around the body on the slab to where Molly stood, "John and I, along with our 'wives', have been invited to stay at his manor in Scotland. He believes us to be successful drug dealers and has said he would make something of us." Wives? Scotland? Sherlock wanted her to go undercover with him, her gut was right. But how could she? How could she explain this to people, to her boss? People would worry.

"Don't look so concerned. I sorted it earlier with Stamford. And before you ask, yes you will be my wife, not John's. He'll be married to one of the undercover agents on Lestrade's team. Donavon's replacement." Clearly Sherlock assumed this would sway her completely into agreeing to do this, though there was too many commitments here in London.

"I can't." Molly replied with heavy regret. Immediately Sherlock's features turned to confusion, obviously expecting her to jump at the chance to be his 'wife'.

"Molly, I need you to do this for me." His voice was low as he stepped closer to her, her back now close to the work table. She could feel his breath breeze across her face, eyes making a home in her own. Molly had definitely become accustomed to his changing tactics, this one being 'drown her in his scent and luscious voice to the point where she can no longer breathe, or speak, or think, or move'.

"Okay." Molly almost squeaked, knowing this was utterly insane, yet completely right.

"Thank you." He responded with a gleeful smile. Spinning on his heal, he too headed for the door, though stopped with his hand on the handle, "Make arrangements for Toby. I'll arrange your briefing." He smiled again, just to seal the deal, before disappearing from the room. All Molly could do was wonder how the next few months of her life would pan out. What had she just agreed to, to please the man she loved?


	3. Chapter 3

**NOTE: Firstly, thankyou so much for the reviews so far. I really do appreciate them and they help me to get over my fears of posting. Secondly, I sincerely apologise for the delay. I'm currently in the process of packing all my things into boxes, ready to move out of my parents house. It's all so hectic at the moment.**

_** I own nothing, which is a shame really.**_

**Chapter Three: A disturbance in the early hours. **

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It was extremely faint at first, the knocking, this insistent thud, thud, thud that blended partly into dream, partly into reality. Her covers were soft, her mattress cosy and her brain refused to let her wake up. But this unrelenting noise kept disturbing her, followed by a muffled shouting entering her ears and forcing her to open her eyes. Molly looked at the blaring red numbers on her bedside clock, two minutes past two in the morning. Another thud came louder now, confirming that someone was actually banging on her door with no consideration for the neighbours and she wasn't still deep in slumber.

Sighing heavily, Molly briefly rubbed her eyes, yanking the covers aside, completely frustrated at having to get out of bed at such an early hour. She knew that there were three options as to who was at her door. Firstly, Mycroft, who just like his brother, had no sense of when people usually slept, nor what the word 'busy' actually meant. He'd visited her on numerous occasions now to continue her debriefing, that she assumed was now over, therefore in theory, it shouldn't be him. Secondly, it was possibly his brother, the man she loved, the man she would do anything for, the great Sherlock Holmes. He liked turning up unannounced, texting her whenever and wherever, again, with no consideration for the timing in her life. And thirdly, it might have been a polite burglar who chose to knock before destroying the feeling of safety in one's own home.

Molly fumbled for the light as she shuffled her way to the door, eyes squinting in an attempt to adjust, long brown hair cascading past her shoulders in a scruffy mess. On the tips of her toes, she peeped through the door viewer, the familiar thumping of her heart causing her breath to hitch. It was him, the second possibility, the great Sherlock Holmes, though looking nothing like his usual self. His hair was shorter, lighter in colour (much like her own), and parted to the side. The curls were still faintly there but nothing compared to what she was used to seeing. And from what she could see, there were the faint hints of a moustache growing beneath his nose. Whether or not she liked it was another matter, only time would tell. The normal coat her wore hung from his shoulders, but his suit underneath looked much more expensive, hand tailored possibly, it fit him perfectly.

Molly quickly returned to normal height, a hand deftly running through her hair before she twisted the latch on the door, his form immediately gliding through the small gap and into her living space. Molly swivelled on her heal to watch him, back falling on the door to once again close it. Sherlock shoved a clothes bag impatiently into her hands, along with a shoe box which she nearly dropped. She couldn't find a chance to process his appearance before he proceeded to tell her she needed to change. The usually somewhat suave detective seemed agitated, eager she supposed, about getting the case moving.

"Why?" Molly looked at the black bag and shoe box, nothing being given away about the contents inside, "What's going on?"

"We're going now, to Scotland."

"Now?" Wide eyed with shock, Molly stepped towards him with the bag clutched to her chest, not sure whether she was fully prepared for this yet, despite this man's profound belief in her. Since Sherlock had asked her, Lestrade had given her the briefing, as well as the full details of the case. She'd had a month's preparation time, though wasn't expecting to leave for another week, otherwise Molly would have looked over her notes more intensely.

"Yes now. Get changed, the cars outside." She felt a breeze pass her as he headed to leave.

"But w-we're not supposed to leave until next week."

Not shy in showing his annoyance, Sherlock turned and strode straight up to her, leaning in slightly as he spoke, "Yes, I know, but there's been a development. Apparently Mr Carter is _eager_ to meet us." He sighed and briefly turned away from her, face composed once his eyes locked with hers once more, "Get into character. You're no longer Molly Hooper. You're the wife of a successful drugs lord." The consulting detective reached deep in his pant suit pocket and handed her two rings, "Put these on. And hurry, we need to be there by morning." With that, he left through the door.

With little hesitation, Molly jogged to her bedroom and hung the bag on the front of her cupboard, dropping the box by her feet. She unzipped it carefully and looked inside, disbelief grabbing her features as the expensive Armani clothes jumped out at her. A slim-fitting black dress hid inside, mid thigh in length, along with a pale beige Armani trench coat, waiting to dress her. No time to think about the clothes now, Molly pulled them off the hanger, changing quickly, still with a hint of awkwardness as she attempted to zip the dress up from the back. Molly then flung the coat over her shoulders and rushed to the bed, opening the shoe box to find a smart pair of Gucci black heels. Her heart was racing at the expense, clothes not usually what she spent her earnings on.

With a glance in the mirror, and a running of her dainty fingers through her unruly hair, Molly left the empty flat, Toby having already found a temporary home in an elderly neighbour. She practically galloped down the steps and out the front door, faced immediately with a brand new Rolls-Royce Wraith. The luxury, the expense of this case was overwhelming. The car was sleek, deep brown in colour and the driver opened the door for her, tipping his hat as she slid into the seat. Molly's eyes surveyed the car, cream coloured seats forming beneath her, a sprinkle of lights in the headlining, as though the night sky had been captured for their personal viewing.

The car began to move, Sherlock sat tapping away on his phone in the seat next to her. She noticed he was already wearing his wedding band, reminding her that she hadn't actually taken a proper look at her own. The engagement ring was modest, though did clearly state how rich they were pretending to be. There were diamonds and rubies in the centre with a beautiful shiny gold band. The next time she had the chance to sleep, Molly would attempt to take in all of what had happened in the space of fifteen minutes.

There was no talking along the journey, not for the first half hour at least. Sherlock either stared intently at his phone, or stared intently out of the window, not an inch of his attention being directed at her. Either way, he was clearly in no mood for conversation. Then suddenly, the consulting detective sighed deeply.

"The details, Molly. Everything is in the detail. Your fake name, easy to remember. You, Lara Mathews, your husband, me, Raymond Mathews. Easy. It's the details that convince a person you are who you say you are." Sherlock shuffled in his seat to look at her more easily, "Details, the date we got married, where we went on our honeymoon, our first kiss. Emotion, Molly. How you felt, what you thought."

"I understand." She muttered quietly. Sherlock seemed so on edge, almost as though something was getting to him. It wasn't nerves, no. It was something else, something more deep set in his mind that she doubted he would ever reveal.

"We're meeting John and the undercover agent briefly before arriving. Then, we're heading straight to meet Carter." Sherlock pointed to the notes resting between them, "Remember, you're supposed to be old friends with John's wife, it was you who introduced them."

Molly giggled nervously, "I know. I've read the notes."

"Good." Sherlock said with the best fake smile he could muster. Though, Molly knew he was pleased with her efforts, never having yet let him down. She'd read the notes on this case over and over, just so she could prove herself to Lestrade and to everyone else. She wasn't always a mouse, only when around a certain consulting detective.

Hours into the journey and Molly had drifted into a light sleep. She could still hear the sound of the moving car, see the street lamps repeatedly brighten up the car as they passed by. There was little sound from the man beside her. She didn't know whether he was on his phone, staring absentmindedly out of the window, or even sleeping himself. The latter she doubted sincerely. Sherlock avoided both sleep and food on his cases, which made Molly wonder how he would ever cope on a case that could last three months.

Eventually, she was woken by the slight screeching of the breaks as the car pulled to a halt. Molly sat up straight, combing her fingers through her hair once again before looking to her side. Sherlock was sliding on his familiar gloves, getting ready to brace the cold air.

"The minute we step out of this car, we use our fake names, Molly. We could be being followed. It's unlikely, but it's a possibility. Remember, good friends with John's wife. Hug her or whatever it is you ladies do when greeting. Her fake name is-"

"Susan, I know. I've read the notes."

"Yes." He smiled awkwardly, stepping out of the car into the darkness, dawn not quite having set in yet. Following his lead, she too stepped out the car, coming face to face with John and the undercover agent.

"Good to see you, Luke." Sherlock and John shook hands and smiled deeply at one another, as though they had not seen each other in a while. However, it was likely it had only been a number of hours since their last meeting. The woman, a one Miss Mary Morstan, walked straight up to Molly with a huge grin and embraced her in a hug.

"Lara, it's been too long." Mary pulled away, "You said you would call me."

"I know, I'm sorry," Molly improvised, grabbing the woman's hand affectionately. Her acting skills had always been on a par, though for Sherlock, she would attempt anything, "We've been so busy with the business, I just haven't had the chance."

"Oh it's okay, we'll have a chance to catch up." Mary smiled deeply at her, clearly trained in faking ones emotions for the sake of the country. She acted as though she had known Molly all her life, her eyes, her lips, even the creases that marked her face appeared to have history with her.

Glancing over to Sherlock, he and John were deep in conversation, just out of range. However, the detective turned, smiled at her too and strode towards her. He too, acted as though their relationship was much deeper set than it actually was. She'd received smiles from him before, though there was always a blankness to them, a sort of distance from his true emotions. Although, the smile just then, gripped her heart and made her briefly forget that this wasn't for real. His arm slide around her waist and a kiss planted naturally upon her cheek, as though it was an everyday occasion.

"We must get there if we're going to make this deal Lara. Susan, Luke, we'll see you there." Sherlock's arm guided her back to the car, his hand opening the door for her like a gentlemen and waiting for her to sit into the car.

As the door closed and Sherlock walked around to his side, Molly contemplated how difficult a task she had set upon herself. When she had agreed to do this, Molly hadn't fully realised what would be most difficult for her. It wouldn't be the acting, or the pretending to like a drugs lord. It would be the closeness with Sherlock, the touch of his hand on her arm, or the caress of his lips on her cheek. Molly watched him as he sat down and slammed the door shut, shooting a smile in her direction as the indifferent wall built back up. Hardest of all would be going back to normal after all this was over.


	4. Chapter 4

**NOTE: Back again! Quite soon this time. Thank you very much for all the reviews. Every single one makes me jump for joy. This is so much fun! I'm enjoying writing this alot and I hope it comes across. Let me know of any mistakes so I can correct them. **

_**I own nothing, sadly**_

**Chapter Four: They meet Mr Set Carter, with a shotgun. **

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Beautiful. That was the first word, the _only_ word Molly Hooper could think of to describe the wonder that was Scotland. The newly born sun gave light to a cloudless sky, her window wound down so she could feel the cold breeze of dawn, hear the beauty of the early morning chirps, sparrows, blackbirds, thrushes, starlings. The roads were endlessly long, stretches of fields either side, with colours of crimson, burnt orange, deep emerald green. Molly could confess that her visits to Scotland had been scarce, though she knew how beautiful it was in comparison to the drama of London. There were so few buildings and miles of grassland between little villages. She was in love with its simplicity, yet overwhelmed by its serenity. Molly couldn't ever imagine living so far away from everything that she knew, however this was the place to escape the modern life that she knew. Nobody here would knock on your door in the early hours of the morning, they'd have to travel too far.

After a lengthy nine hours and twenty minutes of travelling in the luxurious Wraith, Molly could finally see in the far distance, Brodie Castle, the home of Set Carter, their home possibly for the next three months. It was breath-taking, fairytale in design, yet modest in size. The cars drove up the endless pathway, the gravel under the tyres significantly loud within the confines of the car.

Molly's heart pounded profusely against her ribs, her breath coming in shorter rasps. She fiddled with the rings on her finger, ran her hands through her hair several times. She didn't want to be responsible for exposing them, she had to look the part.

"Molly," Sherlock began, his usual patronising tone evident, though this time with a hint of understanding, as though he too were somewhat nervous, "I know you don't want to blow our cover, but behaving as you are now, you'll be the first to be discovered." His eyes fell to her knotted hands placed restlessly on her lap.

"Sorry." Was all she could say, in the mousy tone that she had become accustomed to using around him. Molly took one last deep breath, calming her hands, calming her whole exterior, "Are you not worried he'll recognise you from the TV?"

"No." The pathologist watched as he glanced into the mirror at the front. His lighter, shorter hair and the attempts at a moustache, really did give him a whole new appearance. Yet still, faking ones death isn't something that passes through the news lightly. Famous people changed their hair colour all the time and were still known to their fans and enemies, "Carter is a recluse. He has his club, his wife, his drugs. Yet, he tends to separate himself from everything else, shut out the world around his own." Sounded familiar. That smile she loved so much graced his lips once more, "I doubt that he even owns a TV."

As the car came to a halt, Molly took one last glance at Sherlock, as Sherlock and not Raymond Mathews, her fake new husband. It reassured her that he had faith in her abilities as an actress, because she was sure Carter would be able to read right through her.

A smartly dressed man opened her door and she stepped out gracefully in her black Gucci heels, much to her own surprise. Molly had imagined this moment in her head at least two times by now, where she would attempt to seem sophisticated, only to stumble on her heel and fall flat on her face against the gravel. Luckily for her, that didn't happen. She stepped out, shimmied down her dress where it had ridden up slightly, and walked around the car to Sherlock's side. He smiled at her and held out his arm for her to link with him. Molly did so, knowing the act was now in place. No Molly Hooper, no Sherlock Holmes or John Watson, just two married couples who were into selling drugs as a career.

Arm in arm, Mary and John, Sherlock and Molly, both couples were lead through the entrance to a grand wooden staircase that sprouted off in various directions, undoubtedly to long corridors with room after room after room. Molly could seriously get used to this. Not the whole drug dealer's wife thing, but the expense, the clothes, the house.

From a far room, a silvering haired man came strolling down the corridor, matching tweed hat and jacket, with a shotgun resting idly on his shoulder.

"Ah!" The man's voice echoed in the open room, his shotgun coming to point at them like a finger, before being plonked back on his shoulder, "My guests have arrived I see."

"Mr and Mrs Mathews, sir." Muttered the aging butler who had led the way, his hand coming out to explain who was who, "And Mr and Mrs Allen."

"So glad you could make it here. Set Carter." He held out his hand.

"Raymond Mathews." Sherlock spoke heartily, taking the man's hand as if he was meeting somebody he deeply admired, "My wife, Lara."

"Hello." Molly said as politely as she could, thoughts lingering in her head of what this man had done, the bodies he had put on her autopsy table. Carter delicately took her hand and gently kissed her knuckles. Such a charming gentleman he appeared. He then moved on to shake John's hand, and kiss Mary's, fake names obviously being the core of the introductions.

It was all so strange for Molly, yet surprisingly easy to just pretend to be rich and in love. The latter was true, she was in love with the man stood beside her, chatting to a criminal mastermind as though he was eager to get to know him and do business. She could do this, she could do this for three months no problem. Confidence was key, confidence that soon dribbled its way to the floor as she felt Sherlock's arm caress her back and pull her closer, his lips kissing her cheek briefly as he continued to talk to Carter. The conversation was clearly about her, yet she could only smile and laugh when appropriate, for Sherlock Holmes, the man who she would do absolutely anything for, had his arm around her waist, again. Her whole back felt as though it was tingling and she was sure he would be able to tell how he was affecting her, just by the way she blinked, or by the warmth of her own back under his touch.

"I'm afraid I have to dash." His voice pierced into her ears, "I have a meeting in half an hour. Do join me for dinner this evening and a tour of the castle."

"Thank you, Carter. We'd be delighted." Smiled John, Molly just realising in that moment that his hair was slightly darker than usual.

"Rupert."

"Yes, sir?" The butler turned to his master.

"Show my guests to their quarters, will you." He walked off, continuing to talk, "And announce dinner for them." He was gone then, off into another room with his shotgun.

They were immediately led up the grand staircase, luggage that Molly didn't even know they had, being dragged behind them by further butlers. Weaving down the corridors, they padded along the crimson carpet, walls a pale cream colour with a wooden border that Molly briefly ran her fingers over. Compared to the rest of the house, these pathways were modest.

"Mr and Mrs Allen, this will be your room for the duration of your stay." His white gloved hand pointed to the door, "For your personal use is a lounging area, sleeping apartments as well as an en-suite bathroom. There is an additional room designated for your clothing." In other words, a walk-in-wardrobe, Molly was thrilled. She'd always wanted a wardrobe that she could literally stand in without seeming slightly strange, "If you require assistance with anything at any time, do not hesitate to contact me or other members of staff. We are here to serve Mr Carter's guests." With that, he gave a slight bow to them and turned, "Mr and Mrs Mathews, this way if you will."

They continued down the corridor, possibly two or three doors down from their friends. Rupert explained the same to them, gave a bow and then left. One of the other butlers, a thin young man with thick black hair, opened the door and waited for the couple to enter before carrying in the luggage. Molly was awestruck. The rooms were amazing, fantastic, indescribable. High ceilings with original Victorian wallpaper, pale green with decorative humming birds feeding from plants. The windows let in the sunlight, illuminating the luxurious Victorian furniture, the chaise longue in the corner and the fireplace with two throne like chairs in front. The butler continued to explain how if they were required at any time, they should pull some cord or another on the wall, however in all honesty, Molly wasn't listening. Her eyes were drawn to the large double doors on the back wall.

Opening the dark stained wooden doors, revealed the bedroom, authenticity throughout, wallpaper, furniture, even the curtains she assumed. There was a huge four poster bed, almost the size of two double beds put together, or at least it looked like that. In any case, Sherlock wouldn't complain about sleeping in the same bed as her. It was large enough for four people.

Two more doors were situated at the far end of the room. One was the bathroom, more modern than everywhere else, yet in keeping with the other rooms. Finally, Molly looked inside the walk-in-wardrobe. Although it was currently bare of any clothing, there was enough space in there for the four poster bed in the other room. It was going to look empty. There were only four luggage bags, it would hardly be filled.

Her adventure over, Molly headed back to the lounge. The butler was gone and for some unknown reason, Sherlock had dragged one of the chairs by the fire over to the corner of the room. He was stood on it with his shoes, much to Molly's dismay. It was criminal to treat old furniture that way, however she was sure that wasn't what was on his mind at that moment.

"Should I ask?" Molly said with a slight giggle. She walked to the middle of the room and sat down on one of the sofas, pulling off her shoes and rubbing the heel of her foot.

"You should, Molly." Her eyes went wide. It was Sherlock that was going to blow their cover, using her real name. He saw her face, jumped off the seat and shot her smile, one that was genuine as far as she could tell. He was holding random objects in his hand, observing them carefully and then placing them back exactly, "Don't look so worried. Whilst you were distracted by some old furniture drowned in oversized rooms, I've checked our quarters for surveillance, places where people could listen to conversations and so on." He picked up a lamp, turned it upside down and then placed it back, "We're free to speak in here. Just don't go overboard."

"What about phone calls?"

"Pre-arranged code to Lestrade is fine. Other than that, contacting Mrs Hudson, or your neighbour to check on Toby isn't worth the risk. So don't do it." He eyed her momentarily, as if to say he knows she'll have checked on Toby regularly if given the chance.

Without another word, Sherlock wheeled two large suitcases through to their bedroom, Molly following close behind with the other two. Suddenly, the two of them being stood in the bedroom together felt rather strange, intimate somehow. The consulting detective was impassive of course, casually removing his suit jacket and flinging it on a nearby chair facing out a window. This was all so weird to see Sherlock relaxing, or whatever it was he was doing. Rooted by the door, Molly watched as he sighed, pulled off his shoes and placed them carefully by the wooden feet of the chair. His socks were blue, not that that was of any interest to an ordinary person. But to Molly, it was as though she'd seen a different side to him. She'd never seen his socks before or seen him without shoes on. It was as though she was getting to know Sherlock more by the second, she knew his sock preference. That was a step forward.

They spent the next hour or so unpacking their belongings. Everything from pyjamas to toothpaste had been packed for her, all part of the persona, the character of who she was, who she was meant to be. It turned out only one suitcase was Sherlock's belongings. The other three were hers. Packed to the brim were brands such as Armani, Gucci, Dolce and Gabbana, Dior.

"We're supposed to be filthy rich then?" Molly stated as she opened the second suitcase and began placing the items into the wardrobe.

"Extremely." Sherlock replied with a throaty laugh, carrying his final suit and pair of shoes over to the cupboard.

"So what's our need to get into the exclusive club?" Molly said distractedly as she observed the beautiful cream lace dress clutched in her hands. If we don't need the money that is." She managed to bump into Sherlock as he walked out and she walked in, "Sorry."

The irritation on his face that she had expected to see in response to her clumsy behaviour, was not there when she made contact with his blue eyes. Instead he peered into her own, their close proximity evidently no fuss to him, but a minefield to her interior.

"I thought you read the notes, Molly?" She was convinced he said her name so often, just to see the shiver of delight run down her spine.

"I-I did."

He didn't attempt to further the distance between them. He was that close, she could feel the warmth of his chest, "Then you should know. We may only be drug dealers, but we have come here in the hope of extending further, our income, or prestige in the criminal network, by other means."

"The exclusive club."

"Obviously. Lestrade is positive that the evidence we gather from being members of the exclusive club, will be enough to finally put him away." Suddenly, the distance was miles apart and the cold air settled in around her. He was across the other end of the room, grabbing his empty suitcase and shoving it under the bed. He then picked up a black bag full of male products and closed the bathroom door behind him. In the time he had done that, Molly had only managed to take in one breath. She supposed sleeping arrangements would be discussed nearer the time.

John and Mary soon knocked on their door, entering the room to see how things were going. Sherlock explained that so far he'd checked the rooms for any cameras or microphones and there was nothing to be found. This meant that Carter had no suspicions about them so far. The police had done an exceptional job at preparing their fictional profiles for Carter to look up if needed. This was a comfort to Molly, knowing the horrible man whose wonderful castle she was staying in, didn't suspect her of anything as of yet. The shotgun he held so casually didn't feel as intimidating now.

John and Sherlock sat by the fire discussing certain matters, giving Molly and Mary the chance to get to know each other. Mary immediately began by introducing herself, apologising for springing the hug on her earlier that morning. She didn't want to take any risks and thought it best to be overly happy to see her.

She was lovely, shoulder length blonde hair, beautiful expensive attire similar to her own. Her makeup was immaculate, Molly envied her ability to look so perfect.

"Molly?" Their conversation was interrupted by John, who looked at Mary, "Do you mind if I have a word with Molly?"

"No of course not." She smiled, rested her hand on Molly's before standing and taking John's place by the fire.

"John-" The Pathologist began, tension still clear between them after the whole deception and the Fall.

"No Molly. Let me speak, please." He said carefully. He looked troubled, as though what he was about the say really tugged at his heart, "I just wanted to say that I don't- I don't..." He sighed heavily, clear not having pre-planned this conversation, "What happened to Sherlock, your involvement. I want you to know that I'm not mad at you for what you had to do." John briefly looked at her, "You did everything to keep him safe and I thank you for that. It took me some time to accept that all the times we ever talked, you knew he was alive. But I know you did it for a greater good. And I don't blame you. You helped save my best friend. I can't imagine what it must have been like for you." He smiled then, a sad smile, but a smile nonetheless.

"I'm sorry, John." Molly rested her hand on his shoulder, "I wanted to tell you, I did. It broke my heart every time I had to lie to you."

"It's okay. It's fine. It all worked out in the end. So we should just draw a line under it," His hand drew a line in the air, "And start afresh."

"That sounds good to me." The pair of them smiled at each other, before John spoke once more.

"How are you coping with all this?"

"Oh, quite well." Molly nodded, "It's strange, but it is only the first day."

"Well good luck having to share this space with him." John eyed Sherlock and pulled a joking face at her, "You might not last the week."

Molly giggled, "I'm sure I'll manage him somehow."


	5. Chapter 5

**NOTE: Thankyou for the reviews! I'm so thrilled that people are liking this. I'm worried however, about this chapter. So I hope you'll let me know if it's okay. **

_**I own nothing**_

**Chapter Five: Sherlock ups the game, so does Molly.**

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After they left, Molly went to change, taking her time deciding on something fresh to wear from her new wardrobe. She chose a dress from Dolce & Gabbana, white washed linen, knee length and laced. She adored it, picking a pair of Ralph Lauren suede heels to match. From the lounge she heard Sherlock call her, though by her fake name in case anyone overheard. Molly plaited her hair to the side before walking to meet him, observing that he too had changed, from white shirt to navy blue. After spending a night sleeping in a car, it was always nice to put on clean clothes. She couldn't wait to soak in the two man bath, lavender scented bubbles and all.

They gracefully ascended the grand staircase together, dark varnished wood, smooth under Molly's hand. Her arm was linked around Sherlock's again, their shoes clicking and tapping down the steps to the marble floor below. At the far end of the hallway, Rupert, the butler who'd guided them to their rooms, greeted them kindly and announced dinner would be served at eight, though the tour would begin at seven, therefore they should gather in the drawing room on time. That gave them four hours to fill, of which would be occupied investigating Carter no doubt. Sherlock smiled brightly at the butler, turned Molly and himself to the entrance and walked out into the gardens.

Surveying the area, Sherlock lead Molly across the lawns, the afternoon sun gleaming down on them, the slight breeze allowing the detectives shorter curls to blow in the wind. He pointed randomly at things, appearing interested in the plants, in the deer visible across the long garden. The grass under their feet seemed the most perfect lush green, Molly thought, although not the easiest thing to walk on in heels. She supposed Sherlock hadn't quite thought about that and was more focused on other things. It was soon confirmed when he began to speak.

"We're being watched."

"What?" Molly was about to look around when Sherlock tugged her arm.

"_Don't_ look." He said with a smile, not a genuine one of course, "Look at me and smile." She did as instructed however strange it felt to make eye contact with him in that moment.

"Are they suspicious of us?" Her brain went into overdrive, "M-maybe they heard us in the room befo-"

His sigh interrupted her speech, "No, they didn't I assure you. We just can't give them anything to be suspicious about."

"How are we going to do that?"

Before Molly had the chance to process his words and think of a solution, Sherlock guided her over to a nearby oak tree, her back thumping gently against the rough wood as his hand came to fall on her hip. He was so close again, so close, her breath caught in her throat as his hand came up to stroke her cheek. Clearly, this was for the people watching them, to prove that they were in love and not under some false pretence. Molly's heart was in a deep peril, as she was beginning to forget this was all for show. The way he stroked his thumb across her jaw and pressed his chest gently against her own, it was as though he were really in love with her. In all honestly, it was hard for her to distinguish.

Genuinely, she couldn't help it, Molly smiled at him as he looked down at her, in response, he moved a loose strand of hair away from her eyes, as if he wanted to look at her properly. She had to keep telling herself over and over that it was all for prying eyes, just so she didn't end up telling him she loved him. That would be rather embarrassing.

Slowly but surely, Sherlock brought his face to the side of hers, his breath gently caressing her ear. Molly couldn't help her eyes fluttering closed, his voice rumbling down to her toes.

"Carter won't trust anyone who is not in his _exclusive_ club." That thumb of his still stroked her cheek, "Far left window, first floor. A man is watching us. A manservant possibly to Carter, judging by his clothing and profound loyalty to his masters demands." Her eyes didn't open, she didn't dare attempt to look, "The man with the wheelbarrow in the garden. Not actually gardening. The grass doesn't need edging for at least another week." He moved to talk in her right ear, the hand on her face going down to her hip, edging her closer, "I need you to laugh softly, as though I've said something funny."

"Okay." Molly said breathlessly.

"Now." She did as commanded. It was as natural as could be. Everything about this was making her into the giggly schoolgirl she once knew, that never really left her.

"Molly," Sherlock said in his deep tone, "I'm going to kiss you." At this her eyes shot open, her eyes locked with his.

"Why?" She questioned, not entirely sure why she was questioning. The pathologist had dreamt of kissing this man for years.

"_Lara_, you know why." He muttered with purpose, "I hadn't planned kissing you this soo-"

"_Planned?_" His eyes rolled.

"You honestly think we would have been able to go three months without kissing when we're supposed to be married?"

"I know, I-I just..." She was flustered, her acting was wearing thin. This was all so sudden.

"Unless," She could see the spark of a new idea forming in his head, "We pretended to be in a loveless marriage. You could use your charms as a woman to gather information from willing subjects."

Astounded, Molly felt the urge to slap him, her jaw dropped with outrage. She wasn't going to sell herself cheaply in that manner to gather information. She would feel like a gladiator against a tiger. Fear would overrule her acting and panic would expose them all. There was also the fact that her chance to be close to Sherlock would be shattered.

He saw the look of horror on her face, "No then."

"No." She replied firmly. There was a silence, giving Molly's giddy schoolgirl mind a chance to take over. Her cheeks burnt red and her breath came out in nervous pants.

"Are you embarrassed, Molly Hooper?"

She shook her head and laughed, all in an effort to convince herself that she wasn't an open book, "N-no."

An amused frown invaded his features, as though he was remembering something, Christmas maybe, "Do you not want to kiss me?"

"Of course-" _Oh god_. She was practically telling him she loved him, by saying nothing really at all, "I mean...I just-"

Without her sentence being finished, his lips came down gently on her own. All thoughts were lost, this place, the act, the fact that her clothes, which probably cost hundreds, were being pushed against a moss covered tree. It all meant nothing to her, all that mattered was this man.

He pulled away for a second and all Molly could do was glance at his lips. It seemed in slow motion as they came to rest upon her own again, this time with a little more enthusiasm. It was an act, she kept repeating as best she could, but the more he kissed her, the more she was drawn in. Her hand came up to his hair and she kissed him back.

It could have been her imagination, or maybe the realistic truth to her fantasies, but Molly sensed hesitancy within the man before her. He kissed her, yet it was as though he wasn't overly confident in his actions. She knew he was married to his work, but not so much that he didn't get chance for the odd hook up here and there.

He pulled away again and much to Molly's delight, he too was as breathless as her. She turned to jelly at the sound of his heavy mouthfuls of air.

"That should convince them." He stated as he tried to catch his own breath. That confident hand which had been stroking her jaw so easily before, was now running repeatedly through her hair, down to her cheek, then back into her hair. If it had been any other man stood before her, she would have said that kiss had made him nervous. But this was Sherlock, suave, confident Sherlock who could put any woman under his spell.

"I'm sure they're convinced." She responded lamely, trying to make eye contact with him. Sherlock stepped away from her then, smiling broadly and holding out his arm to link.

"Shall we walk?" He spoke for show, Molly taking his arm with a little giggle. Surreal, was the new word to describe Scotland. Beautifully surreal.

-!-

A floor-length, blood red evening dress. Ralph Lauren. That's what she wore next. In all her years, Molly could never remember a time when she had worn three different outfits in one day. There was the year when she was in the school play, uniform in the morning, costume for performance and her own clothes to walk home in. That little ten year old Molly would never have thought she'd be wearing three expensive outfits in one day.

The red dress clung to her perfectly, as though it had been purposefully designed for her. She swivelled to look at herself in the mirror, the flow of the material swaying with her. Molly had tied her hair up in a bun, matched her makeup to her dress and wore the Gucci heels she'd arrived in. No mousy Molly Hooper tonight. Instead, sultry Molly Hooper who'd hopefully turn heads in a room for the first time ever in her life.

The click of the bathroom door lock distracted her from the mirror, the emerging of Sherlock making her heart flutter. He was wearing a well fitted dinner suit, dressed to impress, much like herself. He didn't look at her like she'd hope he would. Why would he? The Sherlock here was no different to the Sherlock in London. He was the same man, just pretending to be her husband.

"Five minutes, Molly. We need to be in the drawing room."

"I'm ready." She spoke softly, pacing the room in want of distraction.

"We're going to meet the real Carter this evening." Sherlock adjusted the cufflinks on his shirt.

Molly perched on a chair, "What do you mean?"

"I mean, he expects us to be sick individuals, as sick as he is himself. He'll be testing us, all evening. Every word he mutters, every smile, joke, laugh, will be pre-planned."

"Okay." She took a deep breath.

"Your notes. Remember, everything is in-"

"The detail, I know."

He paused, "Good."

Silence fell as Sherlock pulled on his dinner jacket and adjusted it comfortably. Molly didn't know what possessed her to do it, but she was curious about her earlier observations. The minute the question fell from her tongue, she wished she had thought it through in her head.

"You haven't kissed many women, have you?"

Sherlock paused in his actions, eyes and brows turning to clear confusion. He had the exact same expression as when she'd confronted him in the lab before the Fall.

"I don't understand what relevance knowing my history with the opposite sex has to this case." He headed for the lounge door, "We should head down."

Molly sighed frustrated, annoyed at how he always dodged answering her, "Or you could answer me."

Sherlock's hand, which had just turned the knob, pushed the door closed again. Swivelling on his heel, he came to face her, "You're awfully confident, Molly. It's not like you."

He was trying to insult her, trying to break her down so she would end what she had started, but she wouldn't give in. What Sherlock didn't know, was it only he that she shied up around, not the whole world, "It is like me. When you're not around."

"So what's changed?" His eyes ran up and down her, as though trying to seek some answer, "A kiss?"

"No."Her answer was too quick. She had practically shot herself right in the foot.

Sherlock laughed smugly and she knew why. Mentioning the kiss had caused her heart to race, her body to react and he took that as the change, "Ah yes. I kiss you and you suddenly feel welcome to know everything about me."

Molly's inner goddess kept telling her to be brave, but the devil in the other corner kept muttering away her insecurities, "No. You're wrong. I just wish you would answer my questions for once."

The detective took two steps forward, towering over her as he always did, "I choose not to answer."

"Why?" She smiled, deducing him, "Because I'm right?"

If there was one thing she knew about this man, it was that he hated being deduced by others. He was so secretive, so recluse that he always seemed surprised when Molly got things right. He was supposed to be the observer, not the observed.

"I choose not to answer." He repeated tactically, face one of stone.

"I think you'll find you just answered for me." Satisfied that the argument was won, Molly strode confidently passed him, until she felt his fingers grip her forearm and swivel her back around.

"My personal life is no concern of yours. I'm married to my job, if that answers your _question_. But the same can be said for you."

"It doesn't matter about me. I asked you a question. I've asked you many in the past and I never get an answer. I just don't understand why you can't let people in." He was becoming angry, she could tell, despite his face of stone. It was in his eyes, the creases in his skin.

His hand still held her near, "What makes you think I'll answer your questions, if I don't even answer John's? You're just my pathologist."

"_Your_ pathologist?" She hoped to god there was some wine on this tour, "I don't work for _you_."

His voice had become so deep, "I think you do. You're here now."

"Working for Lestrade."

"At my demand."

There was a silence, a tension that needed to be broken. Molly gulped down whatever emotion she was feeling and muttered, "We're late." She broke free of his grasp and flung the door open, heading to leave.

"We have to leave together, Molly. We're _in love_." He mocked arrogantly. Sometimes she hated him.

"Real couples argue, Sherlock." She spat, without looking back, "Let's make this convincing."


	6. Chapter 6

**NOTE: I can't thank you enough for the response! I was so worried about that chapter. This ones a bit long, I hope you don't mind.**

_**I own very little.**_

**Chapter Six: Molly and Sherlock battle and roam the castle in pyjamas, Carter reveals his colours.**

* * *

"Wine, Ma'am?"

"Perfect, thank you." Molly grabbed the crystal glass from the tray and gulped as much as she could in one go. Mary and John were already sat on the flowery sofas, one of the many places to sit in the large golden drawing room. Everything was gold, the mirror, the candlesticks, even the wooden trim on the chairs had been painted gold. John eyed Molly wearily as she walked up to them alone.

"Ah, Lara." John glanced at his watch, "Is everything alright?"

"Just fine." She smiled brightly as another mouthful of expensive wine grated down her throat. She didn't want to get into a discussion as to why she and Sherlock hadn't arrived together, so she admired Mary's clothes, "I love your dress, Susan. Armani?"

"Dior." Mary stood and gave a twirl in her plum dress, laughing giddily with her, just as Sherlock glided into the room. Molly took one glance over her shoulder at him, her laughter ending like a power cut.

Dismissing him completely, she turned back to Mary, "I'm excited for the tour."

"Oh, so am I, the library mainly."

Clearly the tension, or the fact that they had argued, was evident to Mary and John. When an awkward stillness entered the room as Sherlock stood beside her, Molly desperately attempted to fill silence. She hated silence. She spoke to Mary about the day's events so far, though secretly listening and being completely aware of the man at her side. She wanted to look at him, apologise for their earlier argument and be reconciled. But she always apologised, she always said sorry, even when it was he who was the blame for conflict. _No_, this time, this time she would stand her ground. Molly sincerely doubted he would come to her and admit he had said some mean things, but if they were to be on speaking terms again, he had to make some sort of effort first.

For now, it was war, a war she currently had the upper hand in. That was until she felt his fingers lightly brushing against her own and linking them together. She knew what he was doing. Of course it was for show, the footman behind them being a spy no doubt for his master. But it was also because of their earlier disagreement, knowing she loved any opportunity to be in contact with him and so taking her hand in this gentle way, he presumed she wouldn't refuse. The goddess sitting and swinging its legs on her shoulder, told her to break free, show him he can't treat her this way. So Molly laughed in response to Mary's joke, worming her fingers from his and swapping the glass to her other hand to prevent him grabbing it again. Molly didn't dare look him in the eye, for she dreaded seeing his reaction.

Shortly after, Carter appeared, being very apologetic about his lack of punctuality, muttering something about his stupid supplier being completely incompetent and would need to be taken care of. What that mean exactly, Molly didn't know. Taken care of, as in guided in his mislead ways and given better ingredients to improve his stash? Taken care of, as in given a good whack over the head to shake him to his senses? Or taken care of, as in murdered and left in a hotel room to die? It was strange to hear a man speak so openly about drugs and dealings, possible murder. It sent a chill down her spine. He then oh so casually invited them to join him for the tour, beginning in the grand entrance.

"The castle was first built in 1567, by the Brodie family, during the year of Mary Stuart's abdication and her son, James I's, inheritance of the throne..." Molly observed that Set Carter didn't appear at all like an evil man. He seemed so genuine and interested in normal things that normal people were interested in, "...sadly most of the original building was burnt down in the fire of 1645, however, the main tower has survived to this day and is the oldest part of the castle."

All the while, she could see from the corner of her eye, how this was a perfect opportunity for the consulting detective. Sherlock was looking here, there and everywhere, without seeming at all suspicious. He could pretend to be completely absorbed in what Carter was saying and still check the place for surveillance, for evidence of the exclusive club, for anything.

Still however, this little war of theirs was somewhere present in the back of his mind. The minute she'd placed her glass down, his hand had slipped back into her own, holding tighter this time, not enough to hurt her, though enough to prevent her wiggling out of his grasp and seeming suspicious. Currently, he was winning and she despised him for it.

"This is the library, original to 1838." _Wow_, Molly was mesmerised. Beautiful dark stained bookcases acted as the wallpaper, as the pillars in the heart of the room, a centre table with a place to sit and be swallowed by fantasy worlds, "Feel free to take a book and read. However, if I find one missing, you'll find your finger missing too." Molly frowned at that not understanding whether it was a joke or if he was genuinely serious. But then Carter laughed, almost sadistically. It was a little bit of a strange comment to make, though she was supposed to be as sick as he, she had to laugh.

Carter then guided them through the rest of castle, other lounging areas, a piano room and finally the dining room. It was much in the same style as the library, dark wood, dark panelling, with bits of blue and gold sprinkled across the ceiling decoration.

They gathered around the table, Mary next to John, Molly next to Sherlock, taking their places and being served large glassfuls of wine, no doubt to loosen the tongue. Whereas Molly took gulps to dampen her annoyance, she noticed Sherlock's sips were tiny, almost feminine, as though he didn't want a single drop to poison his mind. He was intending to remain focused for the duration of the evening, though Molly was already feeling merry. She'd devoured the wine the minute it fell into her reach.

After light conversation, the large door opened to reveal a woman in a silk blue dress (which Molly couldn't help wondering where she had gotten it from. Armani? Dior? Coco Chanel?), smiling as she greeted them all. It was Carter's wife, Anna, an attractive lady, much younger than her husband, with questionable reasons for being with him. After introductions, she seated herself at the opposite end of the table, guzzling the wine just as Molly had herself.

The starter had passed quickly and the main course soon arrived, Carter bragging about how the pork was from his own land, reared by his own hand. So far, a few topics of conversation had turned Molly's stomach. The main subject had been drugs, obviously. They spoke of suppliers, things that had been revised all before their arrival, as it was bound to crop up at some point. They spoke of their experiences taking drugs and much to the surprise of Molly, Sherlock spoke as though he knew. He wasn't acting, he was reminiscing. There's no way he'd taken drugs, she couldn't let herself believe it.

Prostitution and murder were also subjects talked about as she reluctantly placed another cut of pork in her mouth, trying not to look like she felt sick. However, she was pretty sure her face was as pristine white as the table cloth. They were speaking as though it was the most natural thing in the entire world, to pay for sex and murder when you pleased. She had sipped her wine, clicked her fingers for more, before sipping it once again, just to avoid her face creasing in disgust. Sherlock and John had joined in the conversation about prostitutes, though the detective played the 'loyal husband' card and said he didn't need to pay for it when he had, "his stunning Lara" in his life.

The eyes and creases of Sherlock spoke volumes to her of how he really felt. It was all for show, everything of course. As the consulting detective had said earlier, everything that came from the criminals mouth would have been planned, a test. She feared failure on her part, success on his.

"So Raymond," First name basis already, Carter really did work fast, "I saw you and Lara kissing earlier by the old oak-"

John choked on his _petit pois_, clearly not used his companion getting friendly with a friend, "Forgive me. I ate too fast."

Carter continued as though nothing had happened, "You seem very much in love."

Sherlock looked at her and placed his hand atop hers, "We are." His eyes appeared to dote on her.

"Most of the time." Molly eyed him back, taking another sip of delicious wine, a grin on her face so big it shrunk his own.

"Not willing to share her then?" Even Sherlock looked surprised at his comment. There was a pause before Carter laughed again, "Oh Lara, do not panic my dear, I was clearly joking."

"Clearly." She laughed back as best she could. _Yeah right_, because he was so obviously not going to try it on with her or Mary after chopping off their fingers for not putting a book back.

Desert came and went, along with Molly's appetite for this place. The reality of it all, the reality of the task ahead dawned on her like a ton of cement. Suddenly it was tainted with Carter's suggestions that they should check out each other's supplies, possibly invite a few women over to entertain them tomorrow night. Molly looked at Anna, watching as her smile cracked and her eyes fell. She would hate it if her husband spoke so openly about other women being their entertainment. Maybe Anna hated this life, maybe they could save her.

The evening was concluded with coffee's and plans for tomorrow, Carter inviting them to go clay pigeon shooting with him and dine again in the evening. Both John and Sherlock agreed, standing as Carter insisted he catch up on sleep and that they should do the same. They all ascended the stairs, parting off to their separate quarters, as the lights switched off around them.

The second the door was closed, Sherlock placed a hand on Molly's shoulder and swivelled her to face him, his fingers gripped both her arms.

"Molly," Sherlock began, this same agitated side of him returning, "Let's put our feud aside for now-"

"Because I win?"

He briefly closed his eyes and sighed, "No, because we have work to do."

He brushed passed her and went into the bedroom, returning with her nightclothes and slippers. He plonked them in her arms and told her to change into these. She could change in the lounge, he would change in their room. With little hesitation, Molly quickly changed into the Ralph Lauren pyjamas, not ever wanting to know how much they cost. No one should pay large amounts of money for clothes that no one would see you in. She pulled off her heels and replaced them with the soft slippers, flinging her dressing gown over her shoulders and pulling her hair out of her bun.

Sherlock emerged shortly after, he too in his night clothes. He wore an ordinary t-shirt with plain pyjama bottoms, a thick, deep green dressing down to keep him warm.

"So, what are we doing?" Molly asked as she crossed her arms over her chest, conscious about being undressed in front of him.

"We're going to investigate." He stated as he fastened the ties on his gown.

"We are?"

"Yes."

"In our pyjamas?"

"Yes."

She paused, "Okay?"

He could tell she wasn't fulfilled with his answer, so he elaborated, "We're going wondering the castle late at night. We need to be in our pyjamas, so not to raise suspicion."

"Okay." Molly whispered, although she couldn't fathom why as they were free to speak in this room, "What are we looking for exactly?"

He chucked lightly, no doubt excited about what they were about to do, "I researched this castle long before we came here. After the 17th century fire, the Brodie family feared further danger falling upon them, so they designed the new castle with secret passages, secret rooms, in case of any assassination attempts."

"Wow." He waited for her to say more, "S-so, we're going in search of these passages?"

He smiled again, "Exactly."

"What if we get caught? What about cameras?" He grabbed her hand and pulled her to the door.

"We won't and there are no cameras, I checked."

"What if Carter see us?"

"He won't."

Frustrated, she pulled him to a stop, "Sherlock."

A sigh fell from the detective's lips, "Because once Carter has retired to his room, the household is instructed to do so at the same time as him."

"_Why_?" It sounded slightly strange to her.

"He suffers insomnia. Apparently, if he's disturbed in any way, the butler will suffer the consequences."

"A little bit harsh, don't you think?"

"He's a jealous man. He can't stand the fact that people are better at things than he is, in this case, better at sleeping than he is. He wants to be the best."

Suddenly it dawned on her about the bodies in the lab, "Sherlock?" She tapped his arm distractedly, thoughtfully, "Maybe that's the reason for the murders. Carter was jealous of their power, o-or something, maybe their drug suppliers and he had them killed."

Sherlock looked impressed, though he soon hid it, "Possibly. We'd need to find evidence for that." With a pause, he ushered her out of the door.

Ever so quietly, Molly treaded lightly behind Sherlock, keeping close to the wall as he was. She didn't dare breathe or speak. To be honest, she didn't dare move, however she couldn't be left behind. They took the old servants staircase that was no longer in use, it bringing them out in the main entrance. Their slippers muffled the sounds of their walking over the marble to the library.

Once inside, Sherlock put the lights on dimly, whispering to Molly that they should look for a book for a leaver, anything that could lead them to a secret room or passageway. They didn't have much idea about where they were, but they had a long time to figure it out, even if they were down here every night.

Sherlock was fast, yet quiet and efficient in his movements, scanning the books and pulling random ones that could have been leavers. Molly's approach was much more subtle. She observed each book carefully, noticing some books had become dusty and untouched. She tried one, but it was just neglected, then she tried another, also neglected.

Half an hour passed by quickly and Molly thought the search was pointless. There were too many books to sieve through. With a sigh, she plonked herself down in one of the arm chairs, closing her eyes in want of sleep. Upon reopening her them, Molly noticed something odd in the corner. There was a table in the corner, with nothing on it except a porcelain vase, not in keeping with the time period of the Victorian library. She was sure the whole thing was supposedly contemporary to 1838, yet this vase predated that.

"Sherlock." Molly whispered, not turning to watch him walk over, "That vase."

"Ah yes." He chimed, crouching down in front of it to get a better look. Molly got up from the chair and stood beside him, transfixed as he twisted the vase to the side and stood back. There was an awful racket of weights dropping and cogs turning, before one of the bookcases opened up. Sherlock grinned at Molly and stepped forward, using the light from his pocketed phone to take a look inside.

"Don't you just love old houses?" He whispered, "So well thought out."

The pathologist peered down the blackened passage, admitting freely that she was scared to gaze down it for too long. It was old, very old, 1645 old by her reckoning.

Sherlock began to push it closed, though was stopped by Molly, "Wait, are we not going to see where it leads?"

"No. We don't need to." He pushed it closed, "It's been long forgotten about, no-one's opened the door for decades. We'll be safe to leave through here in case of an emergency."

"I see."

"Let's hope it doesn't come to that." He breathed deeply, "We should go."

The pair headed back the way they came, this time with Sherlock pacing behind Molly. They walked the same route back, not taking any chances at being caught, not that they would with everyone having an early bedtime.

In the dark, Molly could hear her every breath, feel every breath of Sherlock on her neck, every creaky floorboard, every whistle of the wind. They practically shuffled their way through the pitch black hallways, the more time spent out in the corridors, the more danger they were in. And abruptly on cue with Molly's worries, a door flew open mere metres away from them.

Given little chance to respond, Molly felt Sherlock's hand clasp over her mouth and pull her over to an alcove. The Pathologist couldn't help but breathe heavy, her heart hammering in her chest, her eyes wide with panic. Molly could see the stream of light hitting the cream walls, the sound of a woman's cry filling her ears. It was Anna, distressed for some reason, probably at her sordid life. The door slammed shut and they were plunged once again into darkness, the cries of Anna still audible and getting louder. Molly panicked and shuffled closer to Sherlock, as though it would make her less visible, knowing Carter's wife was about to discover them if they made the slightest noise. Sherlock's hand still covered her mouth, his body pressing her further into the small alcove.

When the woman could no longer be heard, Sherlock released her, grabbing her hand and walking speedily to the servant's old corridor. They made it back to their room breathlessly, Sherlock leaning on the wall as soon as the door was shut and Molly perching on the arm of a chair.

"That was close."

"Too close." Sherlock said as he caught his breath. They'd ran up the servant staircase and jogged quietly back to their quarters, not risking anymore folk getting up to find them.

"Do you think she knew we were there?"

"Unlikely." Was all he responded before walking further into the room, "We need to rest. I'll take the sofa, you can have the bed."

She knew he would suddenly become the perfect gentlemen when it came to close contact with another human being, "Don't be silly." Molly giggled, "Have you seen the size of that bed? You'll have to swim a mile before you came anywhere near me."

"A slight exaggeration, but stil-"

"Sherlock. No. We're supposed to be married. What happens if a butler found you in here in the morning when they came to light the fires. How would that look?"

"Convincing."

"What?"

"Real couples argue." He replayed her words, "And the husband always gets the sofa."

"You can't go three months sleeping on there. You'd blow our cover." He looked at her in surprise, as though it was criminal to suppose he would be the one to ruin the case.

"Fine." Was all he said, walking over to the double doors, "I get the left side."


	7. Chapter 7

**NOTE: Hello and welcome to the new chapter! Thank you for the reviews and the positive feedback from everyone. I just wanted to take a minute to explain the location of Set Carter's home. Brodie Castle is an actual place at the top of Scotland. I've researched it's history, interior, family etc. I think it's now owned by the National Trust but I can't be certain about that. Anyway, enjoy! Let me know of any mistakes.**

_**I own nothing**_

**Chapter Seven: Molly and Sherlock talk. They all go clay pigeon shooting**.

* * *

She listened to him sigh heavily as his head hit the pillow in the dark. Molly didn't know whether it was because he'd had a long day, or because he had to share a bed with her. Sherlock said nothing and gave nothing away, he just lay there on his back, covers up to his chest and hands resting on his stomach. She could just make out his silhouette, the curls, although shorter, visible in the moonlight. Molly lay on her side facing him, unable to resist watching his form in the dark, something she couldn't do during the day. When would she ever get the chance to be close to him like this again? To kiss those lips and admire that hair so closely? Once this was over, he'd be back to the same old dismissive Sherlock she'd always known and it would break her heart.

They'd only been here a day and so much had already happened. They'd driven to the beautifully surreal Scotland, Molly had been kissed by the love of her life, they'd had a tour of a wonderful Scottish castle and learnt what a sick man Set Carter was. She was no detective like the man lying beside her, though she knew that if they were to bring Carter down, they'd have to find a fault in him, something he was unable to control, therefore would not be able to manipulate the consequences.

Molly shuffled her head slightly on the pillow, the rustle of her hair against the fabric stirring Sherlock. He yawned and shuffled his feet under the sheet, exhausted from the events of the day. She couldn't control the smile on her face. Seeing him so human, so vulnerable was more than the Pathologist had ever imagined she would see. Yawning that way was a normal thing that normal people did. That just showed Molly how normal he really was.

"_Molly_." He said warningly.

"Sorry." She whispered knowingly.

"We need to sleep."

Molly sighed and turned to lay on her back, "I know but I can't." She rubbed her forehead, "So much has happened." Sherlock said nothing in response, so she continued to talk, "It's only been a day and I already feel like we've been here a week. I-It sounds silly I know but, three months is going to feel like three years." When Sherlock didn't respond again, Molly lifted her head from the pillow somewhat to see if he'd dozed off, "Sherlock?"

"Molly?" He replied and she suspected he was slightly mocking her. It wasn't in a horrible way Molly didn't think, it seemed more playful, light in humour. But the Great Sherlock Holmes playful? Not possible, surely.

"I thought you were asleep." Molly whispered.

He whispered back in the same good-humoured manner, "No, that would be dull."

"Sleeping isn't dull, Sherlock. Clearly, you're not doing it right." She couldn't help a faint giggle passing her lips.

"Clearly." Now that was mocking, not playful. He was implying that because the world slept more than he did, the world's intelligence was on a par. But Molly wondered if she could back him into a corner, tease him and learn more about him.

"So what?" Her nerves were still present, but she had to get more comfortable with him at some point. Why not start here, pretending to be his wife? She supposed the alcohol in her system was also helping her along, "You hate sleep, eat less than everyone else and avoid human contact?"

"Yes, exactly." The Pathologist squinted in the dark to see whether his eyes had closed. They had.

Sherlock was quite strange, even though Molly didn't really like to admit it. He had such a high will power, the ability to remove himself from what humans usually hunted for and craved. The things in life that people usually couldn't get enough of, this man avoided.

Molly rolled to lie on her front, resting on her elbows. In response to her movements, Sherlock turned his head to look at her.

"You're telling me, you're never tempted to click the snooze button in the mornings?" She teased.

"I don't have an alarm. It temporarily hinders the stimulation of the brain."

"Okay." Molly would reconsider her morning routine. She smiled in the darkness, "Are you never tempted to have the second chocolate bar in the fridge, even though you've already had one?"

He sighed, "That is what is defined as overindulgence, Molly. You should break that habit sooner rather than later."

She scowled at him, "Fine, what about..." She glanced around the room for inspiration, before turning back to him, "What about conveniently forgetting you had a dental appointment, because you'd much rather be doing something more important?"

"Yes." Molly's eyes widened, she'd found something the world did that Sherlock did too, "Well actually, I would never have had a dental appointment booked in the first place because I know how to take care of my teeth."

"And you couldn't stand someone telling you what to do?"

"Exactly." They laughed together, something Molly knew would rarely happen. She was just so in love with him.

"You see, you can be normal."

"You don't think I'm normal?"

"Yes of course you are. S-sorry, I just mean...I was trying to-" Molly stopped flustering, observing a smirk that had formed on his face, she could just see it in the dark. So she sighed and turned to lie back down.

"Molly, I've gone over thirty years with people telling me I'm not normal. You're one of the few people to say there is anything remotely normal about me."

"What's normal?" The Pathologist said quietly as she stared at nothing, "I'm ridiculously shy, I cut up dead bodies for a living and I dated a criminal mastermind."

"Yes, but it was only three dates. You can hardly write that in your future autobiography." She laughed again, a silence comfortably taking place.

"I like this Sherlock." Molly spoke without thinking, so she hurriedly tried to explain, "I-I mean, the Sherlock who laughs and doesn't say mean things without thinking first."

"Hmm." It was as though he was contemplating her words, "You mean, normal."

"No..." She didn't want to offend him, but she could see him giving her a look, "Well, yes, sort of."

"I offend people often as you know too well, and I've begun to accept that fact. Maybe you should learn to be more honest with people, instead of worrying you'll offend them." Molly didn't know what to say, "Goodnight Lara."

What _could_ she say to that? "Goodnight Raymond."

-!-

Clay pigeon shooting. Great. She was supposed to be married to a rich criminal who treated her and spoilt her. Carter no doubt expected them all to know what to do, but Molly had to confess, she'd only ever held toy guns. Shooting something flying through the air at a high speed, the Pathologist doubted her ability to succeed.

That morning, Sherlock had reassured her that it was easy enough to do, like the fairground games, aim and fire at the moving metal men. Though in all honesty, Molly didn't think it would be _that_ simple. She had proceeded to question him on his experience with firing a gun and all he had said was that he knew how to shoot a man. He then gave her a look and told her not to ask, so Molly didn't. There were some thing she knew not to push him with.

John and Mary had visited their room that morning and discussed plans for the day. Sherlock and Molly were to get closer to Carter, get to know him and begin to gain his trust, whilst Mary and John were to speak kindly to the members of staff and test their loyalty.

"My guests!" Carter welcomed cheerfully, that shotgun having found his shoulder again. At last night's dinner he'd told them to meet him in one of the far fields, a butler would guide them along the path. Brodie Castle boasted seventy one hectares of land, without a guide, they'd undoubtedly get lost, "Glad you could join me on this _glorious_ morning."

"We wouldn't miss it for the world." Chimed John, shaking the criminals hand before sliding his arm around Mary's waist. They'd all dressed typical for the event, flat caps, high boots, chequered shirts and quilted jackets. Molly liked the look, especially on Sherlock. She hardly recognised him.

Carter began to tell them how he adored this sport, and doubted sincerely that anyone could beat him. Molly supposed it was more, 'if anyone dare beat him they'd regret it'. The look in Sherlock's eye however, told her he was going to try.

"So I presume you all know how to handle this beauty." He swung the shotgun off his shoulder and clasped it with both hands, an oversized grin gripping his mouth.

"Luke and I are regulars at our local shooting grounds, however Susan and Lara tend to have other things to occupy their time with." Sherlock smiled and turned to one of the footman, who had the shotgun and shells ready to hand. He picked up the gun and casually placed the shells inside. Molly found it somewhat scary how at ease Sherlock was with the contraption, though strangely impressive, masculine, sexy.

"Well it is easy to learn ladies. I'm sure you're men can show you what to do." He winked at them and pulled on his ear protectors, "Pull!" The clay disc flung from the machine and was shot down with perfect accuracy. Carter turned and heartily laughed at them, challenging them, daring them.

There was no competition as such, Carter, John and Sherlock taking it in turns to shoot down the discs, Mary and Molly standing back to watch. The three men seemed like old university pals, friends who had and would be friends forever. The delusion was so real, yet so obviously fake.

Molly heard Sherlock calling her, her heart pumping furiously in her chest. Even hearing him say her undercover name sent a shiver down her spine. She practically skipped towards him, smiling and crossing her arms as she stood in front of him.

"Shall I teach you?" He suggested, kissing her cheek in view of Carter.

"Please." Molly giggled, never having imagined the gun would be so heavy. She peeped over her shoulder, watching as John taught Mary just a few yards away, Carter stood a good distance from them all doing business on his phone.

"Should we try and listen?" Molly whispered, holding the gun as Sherlock loaded the ammo.

"No. Luke and Susan are on it." The detective cocked the shotgun, Molly holding it with two hands, "Now," He said whilst placing a pair of ear protectors over her head, "when you shout pull, the machine lets out the disc. Keep focused on it and when you're ready, pull the trigger.

"Okay." Molly said, taking a deep breath, "Pull!" Her eyes settled on the disc and she took the shot, missing completely and watching as the disc thudded into the dewy grass.

"Sorry." The Pathologist giggled, allowing Sherlock to refill the gun.

"Here." He said, cocking the gun and handing it back to her. However she suddenly lost all concentration as she felt him pressed flush against her back, his hands coming to rest upon the gun atop her own. It was obvious he was going to try and help her get the shot, though there was no way she would be able to concentrate with him standing so close.

With all attention lost on her part, Sherlock shouted pull and the disc flung into the air. With the detective in control, the gun followed the track and Molly felt his finger press down her own on the trigger. The disc shattered into countless pieces and Molly couldn't help being completely impressed, even though she'd seen him do it over and over that morning.

He told her to try it again on her own and she did, able to focus now that he'd taken a good few steps away from her. Molly wanted to see the impressed look on his face when she managed to hit the target, so she took a huge deep breath down to the base of her lungs and remembered what he'd told her.

"Pull!" She shouted loudly, watching the disc fly through the air. _You can do this Molly, you can do this_. She pulled the trigger and couldn't quite believe it when the disc shattered midair. Completely overridden with joy, Molly leaped in the air, shoving the gun at a footman and jumping at Sherlock, embracing him in a hug. Realising what she had done, she was about to jump down, when she felt his hands hold her and lift off her feet.

"Well done my beautiful Lara." He spoke loudly, catching the attention of Carter. He pocketed his phone and walked over to them.

"Maybe you should take private lessons with me Lara? You're a natural."

"Oh no," Molly politely declined, Sherlock having put her down. She straightened her jacket in apprehension, "This isn't for me. I prefer horse riding."

"Well I have plenty of _those._" He stood closer to her and squeezed her cheek as though she were a baby. All she could do was smile and pretend his jokes were funny, pretend she wasn't disgusted every single time he came near her or spoke to her.

"Yes well, I'm the perfect teacher," Sherlock's pulled Molly against him and smiled at Carter, though more as a warning than anything.

Carter looked as though he was containing his emotions, before managing to get them in check, "Ha, yes well do join me for dinner." He tapped Sherlock on the shoulder and began to walk off, "And bring your products. I cannot wait to accept you and Luke as my newest suppliers."

"We look forward to it."


	8. Chapter 8

**NOTE: Firstly, I would like to apologise for such a lengthy delay. I've just moved to begin my studies at University and it's been hectic for the past few weeks. Secondly, thank you so much for your lovely reviews! If it wasn't for you, I wouldn't be motivated. Thank you so very much. Any mistakes please inform me and I'll correct them. And if any feels uncomfortable with the current rating and feels it needs to go up, let me know and I will reconsider it.**

_**I own nothing except evil Carter**_

**Chapter Eight: Discussions of the exclusive club**

* * *

"Seems strange, does it not?"

"There's nothing strange about it."

"You don't think so?"

"No." Sherlock finished putting on his dinner jacket, straightening the cuffs, the collar, before brushing down the sleeves. Molly was talking through the bathroom door which hung slightly ajar, watching him through the gap as he checked his final appearance in the mirror. He looked good in everything, Molly concluded, or in nothing she predicted.

The Pathologist was attempting to zip up the back of her Dolce & Gabbana flower dress, failing completely and utterly glad Sherlock was busy in their shared bedroom. Molly would have been able to do it on her own, had she not been using a shotgun earlier. Every time she had pulled the trigger, the gun had jolted against her shoulder, now making it uncomfortable to bend at particular angles, making it impossible to pull up the zip.

Pulled in at the waist, the dress was cream in colour, running down just below her knee with white roses sprinkled across the material. She loved it just as much as the rest, but couldn't understand why the zip had to be at the back. Clearly it had been designed for a person who had a maid at hand to help them, not a Pathologist undercover as a wife.

Sherlock continued, "Sometimes, the police break the law for a greater cause. This is a greater cause, Molly."

"O-of course, I know that." She bent her arms in an attempt to grab the zip from over her shoulder, though was hit with shooting pains in her muscles, her face screwing up painfully. No use, "But we're talking about drugs here."

"We won't be using them, if that's what you're thinking."

"No, no. I wouldn't dream of it." Molly didn't want to really think about it at all, the whole drug use aspect of the undercover operation, "I just didn't think the police would provide us with our fake supplies. W-well, not fake supplies, real supplies, but our pretend supply." Why did her sentences never make sense when speaking to this man? "What I mean is-"

"I know what you meant, Molly." Sherlock interrupted, sounding slightly impatient, "But it is better than having them come from a drug dealer. That would make the whole case pointless." Yes, pointless like this dress. She couldn't wear this. The only other option was to ask her 'husband' to help, however seen as though they weren't actually married, and Molly actually did love this man, it probably wasn't a good idea to involve him. Molly would just have to brave it, walk out into the bedroom and dive into the walk-in-wardrobe. There, she could pick a dress that was much more practical, not as nice, but still, practical.

With a deep breath and an uneasy glance in the mirror at her bra on show across her back, Molly opened the door, taking quick light steps in stocking clad feet, over to the cupboard, not wanting Sherlock to see her in a state of undress.

"Need help?" Damn. Molly stopped in her tracks and slowly turned to look at him. The detective sat looking out of the window. Did she really think she could fool this man? It just wasn't possible.

"Umm." She didn't think she would be able to handle him zipping up her dress, because in all honesty, the images in her head were always the reverse, "No, it's fine. I-I'll just get another dress."

"_Molly_." God, why did he have to say her name like that? So deeply that it rippled through her. So irresistible that she would bend to his every will. He'd stood from the chair and had already started walking over in her direction.

Without being able to say a word, Sherlock rested his hands gently upon her shoulders, turning her so her back was facing him. His hands against her made her skin tingle, consequently making her eyes close. Molly then heard the floorboard creek as his stepped closer, breath on her shoulder, hands trailing slowly down her bare skin. Surely he didn't need to stand this close, for this long, to zip up her dress? Or trace the tips of his fingers down the bare part of her back? Surely he was testing her, teasing her? But then she remembered who she was, who he was. He was Sherlock. Teasing her in this way? No, never.

She sucked in a breath, having no doubt that he heard it, his hands stilling halfway down her back, as if he'd been interrupted. There was a pause, a long pause as though Sherlock had no idea what to do with himself. Molly turned her head slightly to look at him questioningly, just from the corner of her eye. She could see him stilled, staring back at her in silence. With one quick movement, the zip was up and Sherlock was across the other side of the room, sat in the chair, staring out of the window. For one short minute, Molly would have said something was going on between them, that Sherlock was showing some signs of attraction towards her. But under the current circumstances, she couldn't let herself believe it. Things were complicated.

"Thank you." The Pathologist muttered quietly, clearing her throat and smoothing down her dress. Sherlock said nothing, hands linked carefully on his lap, eyes focused deeply on something far in the darkened distant gardens. Her heart leapt in her chest as she attempted to distract herself, grabbing her cream Ralph Lauren heels and shoving them awkwardly onto her feet.

Silence killed Molly, she hated it. What was she supposed to do? Just stand here after a slightly awkward, slightly confusing and breathtaking experience until he responded? Or was she supposed to say something? Or maybe pretend it didn't happen? Maybe it hadn't happened and Molly only thought something had, when in reality it hadn't. She was becoming slightly flustered in her own thoughts, so she turned to the mirror and checked her hair was still slightly curled at the end and hadn't dropped.

With a shy sigh she turned, "Are we going down?"

He said nothing, as was typical, stood from the chair and knelt down, reaching under the bed. Sherlock then pulled out a small black suitcase and placed it on the bed, flicking open the locks and showing Molly the contents.

"This is what the police have provided us with?" She uttered, stepping one unsteady step forward to look more closely at the contents. Deep within her, she felt a slight jab in her gut, the seriousness of this laying right before her. There were drugs in that case. Real ones. What if she had to take them for the sake of exposing Carter? In all honesty, she was scared, very scared. How could she tell this man that she was terrified of what lay ahead?

"Yes." He stood up, straightening his jacket, "Our samples to show Carter." He closed the case, "Let's go."

"Wait, Sherlock." Molly grabbed his arm to stop him, though let go immediately upon viewing his face, "Are you not worried?"

"Worried?" He appeared almost offended.

"About Carter wanting to sample these...him wanting us to sample his?" It was a reasonable enough question. The likelihood of this happening was high. They were apparent drug dealers after all.

"Not all criminals take drugs. Most have a tendency to do so, though we're supposed to be clean." He began to walk to the door again.

"What if it's a test?" She hurriedly spoke, anxiety now on show. Sherlock stopped and turned to her again. No doubt he was deducing her uncertainties, "W-what if taking the drugs is the first test?"

"There are plans in place, you should have read the notes."

"I have."

"Then you should know."

She huffed, "It says nothing about how to deal with a drug induced state."

"We won't be taking the drugs."

"How can you know that!" Frustration at his simple and easy flowing answers set in, "We're supposed to be as sick as he is remember? He could easily force us. Any refusal and he might get suspicious of us. The reason we're doing this is to get into the club and bring him down. We no nothing of the initiation stages." She pointed anxiously to the suitcase, "This could be one of them."

"Moll-"

"Sherlock!" It was practically a shout, a plea for him to listen to her for once. She was beginning to panic, all her hidden, conflicting emotions hitting her at once. In all her life, she had never so much as had one cigarette. It had made her feel as though she couldn't breathe, made her cough and made her vow never to touch one again. How could she contemplate the idea that she may have to do something drastic to keep this case undercover? The detective looked slightly taken aback. He'd never seen her panic before, maybe he didn't realise she could do so.

With a breath and a calmer, quieter voice, Molly continued, "You like deducing people, deduce me."

With a silence, he placed the suitcase down on a nearby table and began to walk towards her, eyes fixed on her own. The tears that were threatening to roll down Molly's cheek were undoubtedly visible to him, her racing heart, her anxious hands twisting fistfuls of her dress tightly. His eyes flickered across her face, down her body to her hands and to her feet. Being scrutinised this way put her further on edge, but she needed reassuring, something Sherlock wasn't very good at, at the best of times.

"What do you want me to say?" Sherlock muttered, eyes cast down, observing her closely, hands hidden within the confines of his trouser pockets.

"Something. Something comforting." Molly said, trying her hardest not to cry. Two days they had been in Carter's home and with everything that had happened, it was all spilling out at once. Usually, she could stay strong until she was alone, however alone time here was nowhere to be found. She needed a hug, comforting words, though the Pathologist was asking the wrong person. Sherlock's personal dictionary had never seen or heard of the word sentiment.

"So far i-it's been fake smiles, fake laughter." Molly sniffled and brushed her hair behind her ear, "I've handled that fine," A tear traitorously fell from her eye and she immediately wiped it away. Sherlock looked awkward, unsure of what to do, "I-I can't walk out that door knowing I might have to take what's in that case."

"You won't have to."

Molly's jaw clenched, annoyance returning at Sherlock's apparent psychic abilities to know what Carter had planned. "You can't know that!"

"I can!" It was Sherlock's turn to raise his voice. Molly had never heard him shout before. The emotions he usually kept well hidden were evidently visible on his face. He was mad, annoyed, frustrated.

Molly raised her own voice and stepped forward, "How?"

"Because I'll take them."

"What?" She shook her head in confusion and refused to break contact with his wide eyes.

He stepped close, "I said I will take them." Molly being too stunned to speak, Sherlock continued, "If we _have_ to take them, I wouldn't allow him to force you. _That's _how I know. I would make _him_ make _me_ take _yours_. Do you understand now?"

Molly managed to process his words. He would sacrifice himself for her? That was madness, "I couldn't let you do that."

"Why not?" He turned away and grabbed the suitcase.

"Because they're drugs."

"I used to take drugs, Molly. I would know what to expect. I would know how to deal with it."

"Sherlock." His name tumbled from her lips, yet she had nothing else to say. She needed to take in all the new information. He used to take drugs? He just didn't seem like the type.

"Come on."

-!-

The evening's dinner seemed to fly past Molly in a haze. She was aware of Carter and his sick topics of conversation, she was aware of Sherlock's hand on her own and John and Mary's laughter. Molly could see a sad looking Anna at one end of the table and the food on her plate lying virtually untouched. However it was almost like a dream. She had become cooped up in her own mind, thinking about what Sherlock had said. To save her the ordeal of experiencing the world of drug abuse, he would take whatever drugs that Carter made them take, even though he'd kicked the habit long before they knew each other. Why would he do that when most of the time he acted as though he were indifferent to her? And there was also the fact that Sherlock used to take drugs. Molly had thought it possible the previous evening, they way he talked about them, however she would never imagine it was possible.

Distracted from her thoughts by Carter inviting them to the drawing room, Molly stood unsteadily on her heels, Sherlock noticing and catching her arm.

"Too much wine." Molly feigned, giggling as everyone else laughed. In dire need of reassurance, she grabbed Sherlock's hand to comfort herself, it was not part of the act. She needed to hold it right now because dealings were about to be made. The pathologist didn't know if she could face it.

"Please, make yourselves comfortable. Brandy anyone?"

John and Mary greedily accepted. The pair had spent the rest of the afternoon speaking to footmen, butlers, maids. Nothing too obvious, but collecting information about what Carter got up to in his spare time. From what they had gathered, Carter spent most mornings on the fields shooting clay pigeons. If he wasn't doing that, he was driving one of his many classic cars across Scotland, making dealings, sorting out business. In the evenings, if he was not entertaining guests, he would be meeting with his exclusive club. No surprise the staff's information about that was limited.

"Now, let us get straight to it." Carter began, dropping onto one of the sofas, drink in hand. Sherlock and Molly sat opposite him on another sofa, Mary and John to their side, arms around one another, "I've been eying up that suitcase of yours Raymond, and yours Luke." Molly sat close to Sherlock, hand still linked with his own. Her skin crawled as the criminal's eyes landed on her, "Lara. _Beautiful _Lara. Would you be so kind as to bring both suitcases to me?"

Acting in check, she beamed a smile, "Certainly." Molly stood and picked up Sherlock's case, walking over to John and taking his from the floor by his feet. Molly then handed them to Carter. As she turned to walk away to sit safely by the detective's side, he gripped her wrist tightly, eyeing up her outfit. His eyes trailing along her had a different affect to when Sherlock did it. With Sherlock, she never wanted him to stop looking. With Carter she felt the need to put on a pair of thicker stockings and find a cardigan.

"Thank you. Do sit with me." It wasn't a request, it was a demand and Molly had no choice. With a brief glance over to Sherlock, the Pathologist sat down by Carter's side, his hand coming to rest on her knee. She couldn't help the flinch that went through her, thoroughly hoping the man beside her didn't notice. Carter laughed, "My dear Lara, you're not frightened by me, are you?"

"Lara is very loyal to me." Sherlock spoke from across the room, "She's not used to another man's touch."

"I see." The criminal and detective eyed each other warily for a moment, the jealous husband act being played very well, "We will see about that."

As if he had said nothing wrong, Carter smiled broadly across to his guests and opened both suitcases, humming in delight as the contents inside were exposed to him.

"I like what I see so far." He spoke as he rifled through the supplies. With the click of his fingers, one of the butlers appeared near him.

"Sir?"

"William, take these to her." He handed both cases to the servant, "Don't keep me waiting."

Molly was lost. She didn't quite understand what had just happened. All evening she was apprehensive, assuming that he would force them all to take what they had brought. Instead, the drugs had left the room and were being sent to someone, presumably for analysis, Molly didn't know.

"Now," Carter stretched out, his arm coming to fall upon Molly's shoulder. She felt physically sick, "I am eager to discuss business with you all. If all goes well, within a matter of months you will be the newest members of my exclusive club."

"Wonderful." Mary chimed, taking a elegant sip of her brandy, "It is such a delightful honour to even be considered.

"Ah, Susan, you do know how to charm." Carter said with a squeeze to Molly's arm. She had to hold back the heave that worked it's way up her throat, "There are several initiation stages that you have to successfully pass before I can even consider you as members. I hope that doesn't seem too unreasonable."

John shook his head nonchalantly, "Not at all, the more stages the better. Can't have any old criminal in your club!"

"Quite right Luke. You all seem as eager as I am to get things heading in the right direction."

Carter explained to the undercover detectives that the first stage was to be accepted as one of his suppliers. If they were, then he would proceed to challenge them and begin the next stage, however couldn't let them in on it until they'd passed phase one.

Within a matter of minutes, the butler had returned empty handed. He approached his master, whispered something into his ear and left the room after being dismissed. Carter finally let go of Molly and stood. He then grabbed Molly's hand and pulled her to her feet.

With a hearty laugh he raised his glass, "Shall we drink to celebrate?"

Sherlock, John and Mary stood, they too holding their glasses high to clink with the criminal's own.

"To my newest suppliers, cheers!"


End file.
